


A Change of Pace

by NightingaleSong



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, FORD Ford Madox - Works, Parade's End - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, canon divergent (FMF final book), post tv series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightingaleSong/pseuds/NightingaleSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midsummer's eve, 1921. A widow attends her sister's elegant soiree. A hot, humid night leads to an unexpected discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change of Pace

**Author's Note:**

> For Bella, hope you like it! x
> 
> I feel a certain amount of guilt for messing with poor Chrissy, but I hope he'd forgive me....  
> _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**June, 1921**

"Ma'am?" the short, dark-haired maid bobbed nervously in front of me. "M'lady asks if you would check the floral displays in the dining room. She wants to know if they are plentiful enough, ma'am." Her brown eyes flicked shyly behind long lashes and her small hands fidgeted in front of her apron.

"Of course, Huggins." I smiled reassuringly, "tell her I would be delighted."

"Thank you, ma'am." Huggins bobbed again and scuttled away like a frightened field mouse.

I sighed and shut my eyes for a long moment. It was my sister's fault that her staff were all on edge. My esteemed sister who had married a Lord and had decided, after long years of war, and two truly terrifying outbreaks of influenza in the following years, that this mid-summer's eve she would return to the tradition of holding a soiree at her impressive home deep in rural Oxfordshire.  Despite the fact that the world was changed, altered forever in so many ways, she was determined that she would entertain in the grand old style from the height of the Edwardian era she so clearly missed.  It was different for me now. My life had changed immeasurably in the last three years. Like so many others I was a widow. My husband lost in some muddy field in France, giving his life seemingly so my sister could fret over flowers and cutlery. A woman alone and in my mid-thirties, my future was diverging from hers at an ever-quickening pace.

 

 

Invitations had stated seven for seven-thirty. The dressing table of the best guest room bore sparkling jewellery, fine brushes and bottles of scent.  I sat in front of it, wrapped in a robe after having had a long soak in a warm bath. "What time would you like me back to help you dress, ma'am?"

"Oh," I replied, turning from the mirror. "Six would be perfect. Thank you."

"Yes'm."

Once alone, I padded softly across to the mahogany wardrobe, where my evening dress hung ready for later.  I picked up the skirt, feeling it's delicate brush across my palm. It was truly beautiful. Turquoise silk and silver beading, simple and elegant. Cut to flatter my figure with a v-neckline, fitted at the waist and a floor-length skirt, it certainly wasn't the modern style but that would have been inappropriate for a woman of my age and situation.  I would leave the short, loose dresses to the younger ladies.

 

Guests began to arrive at the customary ten minutes past the hour, some considerably more fashionably late than others.  I smiled and shook hands through the haze of introductions, few family and many of my sister's London set whom I had heard of, but never met.  I moved between groups, sipping my champagne, smiling and nodding, and firmly ignoring the hushed whispers of sympathy from many of the older women. If I had taken a sip for every "that's the younger sister. A widow, poor thing." I would have been halfway to merry.

There was only one other guest whose name I heard in quietened tones more than mine. Christopher Tietjens. We had not been introduced, yet I could pick him out across the room. Tall, broad, wavy ginger hair cut formally yet with a softness that belied his severely controlled countenance. He exuded elegance, intelligence, the slight formality of a gentleman, which of course he was.  I felt almost sorry for him, standing with a group of other men, engaging in pleasantries, yet, like me, I could tell he was more than aware of the gossip wafting through the room on the wings of the summer breeze. If anything, his story was more tragic, more painful to bear, more difficult to maintain his position and values in the wake of it.  He too had been married, the rumours there had been wicked years before.  His wife, a flighty socialite, almost ruined his fine reputation with her pursuit of other men. She had succumbed to the first epidemic of influenza in 1919 and he had finally proposed to the woman he had loved for years. She, however, unable to reconcile herself to not having her own place in improving the modern world, had left him to train as a nurse.  He and I then, in a sea of people clinging on to the past, surrounded yet alone. I saw it, the recognition of our isolation, in the small movement of his mouth when he caught my eye as I moved through the eddying extravagance.

The evening progressed and the dancing began. I stood by one of the tall windows enjoying the cooling night air and nodding politely at the ramblings of an elderly aunt.   I could see Mr Tietjens through a gap in the groups, talking with two other men. He held a whisky with long, pale fingers wrapped around the engraved glass and every so often glanced over with a small, half smile.  He had taken one step in my direction, pausing to allow two ladies to pass, when Isobel appeared like a siren out of the throng.  She wound her arm through mine and dragged me off, gushing about what a spectacular success the evening had been; the bountiful flowers, opulent food, the sparkle of the chandeliers; how Lady Grayson was especially envious of the dress Isobel had had designed and made in Paris.

 

Carriages were at one although there were several house guests who were staying for the weekend.  Isobel had arranged a programme to rival royalty; afternoon teas on the lawn, hunting parties, a tour of the grounds for the ladies. By half past, the house was strangely quiet and as I climbed the stairs to go to my own borrowed room all I could hear was a few whispered conversations behind closed doors.  Having sent the exhausted maid to bed, I hung my dress back on the wardrobe before pulling on my nightdress, washing and cleaning my teeth.  My bed had already been turned back for the night but the room was far too hot.  I pushed my window open as wide as possible before throwing back the covers fully and settling myself onto the mattress in an attempt to sleep.

Sleep wouldn't come. My mind was full of music, laughter, the glint from a crystal cut whisky glass, half-heard conversations, a nearly-there smile, and most of all, heat.  The air was still. Oppressive. I felt as though I could barely breathe.  Across from my room was a small ante-room, a dressing room of sorts, attached to the bedroom next to it.  If I could open the window in there, and leave both doors ajar, it might be possible to create a small through draught that would give me some much needed relief.  Silently I crossed the hallway.  I knew the house well enough to know that this door often appeared locked when it wasn't. It needed pulling forward before turning the doorknob.  On opening, I could see that the window was already on the latch, the moon shining brightly through the open curtains, lighting the room in a calm, silver glow.  The door to the adjoining bedroom was held open, maybe in an attempt by its occupant to let some air in as I hoped to do.  Creeping slowly, I crossed the room to the casement, pushing the window out as far as possible and securing it on it's furthermost latch.  It was then I heard it. A soft sigh from the room next door. I froze in place for a second, heart hammering in my ears, my hands still pressed on the wood of the frame. Within seconds all was quiet again so I stepped away from the window and stole closer to the door, unable to resist a quick peek at whoever was within.

My hand flew to my mouth as my brain made sense of what I saw. It was not the hunched sleeping form of a deaf relative highlighted in sharp relief by the light of the moon, but him, Christopher Tietjens, sprawled on top of the sheets, naked as the day he was born.  I knew I should leave, knew I should tear my eyes away, but I found myself entranced by the sheen on his chest, the tilt of his head, the long muscles of his legs moving and shifting as he twisted slightly to the side. And then, _oh god_ , then, the soft swell of his manhood twitching and rising from its soft nest of curls. I couldn't leave, my breath caught in my throat and I tiptoed to position myself near the doorframe,  where I could be sure I was out of view.   His arms, which had been resting loosely by his sides, now came up to touch his body. His right palm lay over his chest and his left slid down the sparse, short hairs of his thigh. It was intoxicating, the moonlight throwing highlights and shadows across the soft peaks of his pectorals, the gentle roll of his abdomen, the valleys of the creases between hip and leg.

He tilted his hips as his fingers squeezed over a nipple. I could see him bite his lower lip, furrow his brow as he pushed his head back into the pillow. His left hand ran up and down his thigh, light feather strokes, sometimes brushing into the curls at his groin, his erection growing, moving, seeking.  I felt my own first flutter and pulse of arousal as my body reacted automatically to the sight before me. A deep groan filled the air as his hand made contact with the velvet warmth of his hardness and I had to bite my own lip to prevent myself from responding. Slowly, surely, his pale fingers encased the flushed skin. His movements were gentle, featherlight, gliding and whispering up and down his length until his hips bucked and his shoulders pressed hard back into the mattress, his chest heaving with deepened breaths.  He stopped a moment, his hand still, moving his left one back up to circle through the now glistening sweat on his stomach and chest.  He teased his skin, butterfly touches and fingertips drawing untraceable patterns that brought a smile  of indulgence to brighten his features.  I found my own breathing laboured, my right hand pressed tightly against my own centre, fingers drawing through the growing wetness and heat, totally unable to stop myself touching and wanting.

When he returned his right hand to his eager length, his pace was faster, more determined. His grip was firmer and he slicked his thumb over the shiny, pink tip as he drew the skin downwards. His fist pressing firmly into the coarse hair at the root before moving all the way back up, twisting, slicking, repeating. His hips now moving in a steady rhythm, I could see the ripple of movement through his torso, the tension in his shoulders, the bobbling of his prominent Adam's apple as his head tipped backwards.  His left hand skittered back down his body, less controlled, more urgent, and plunged between his legs to hold, press and roll his testicles.  I had to shut my eyes as the sounds he was making became louder, the tenor of them adding to the vibrations in my own body.  I could feel my nightdress sticking to me as my body heated, became more sensitive, more responsive. The wetness between my own legs grew, my hand moving quickly and easily to heighten my own pleasure.  I opened them again to see he had once again stopped his movements, hands gripping into the sheets on either side of his body, moonlight shining off his heaving chest.

The trail of slickness glinted enticingly on his stomach, a shiny trail like a dewy thread of cobweb visible as his cock twitched and pulsed, jerking away from the skin of his stomach while he writhed, knuckles whitened in the wrinkled bedding.  He bent his knees, his feet flattening on the bed and arched his back, muscles taut and quivering, his hips thrusting into the air once, twice, three times before his body fell back, his right hand returning quickly to set up a punishing rhythm. Sweat beaded on his reddened face as he thrashed his head left and right against the pillow, his beautiful lips bitten in an attempt to contain his increasingly loud moans. I braced my hand against the wall, my own legs shaking violently as I throbbed and shuddered, heat and pressure building fast as my own pace increased to match his. His hips powered up and down, twisting and rolling, his left hand now pressed hard against his thigh.  All I could hear above my own silenced gasps and pounding heart were his guttural, primal moans, the soft swish of sheets and the slick slide of his strong hand. Just as it seemed he could pump no faster, his thrashing suddenly stilled, his hips in the air, leg muscles tensing momentarily then jerking as he cried out short and loud in the silence. His head thrown back and mouth open while ribbon after ribbon of shining semen coated his neck, his chest, his stomach.  He fell suddenly to the bed, silent and heaving as my own orgasm broke over me in waves of pulsing pleasure such as I had not felt since losing my husband. I couldn't help the small sound that escaped my lips, focusing as I was on not sliding to the floor as my legs shook and threatened to give way. 

"Hello?" he called quietly, his voice breaking slightly but still deep and commanding. "Who's there?"  I flattened myself against the wall, calming my breathing as quickly as I could.  I could see him still, even as I remained silent and immobile, long seconds passing before his hand moved from his softening cock, sliding up through the sticky mess on his skin, fingers drawn slowly and deliberately, enjoying the sensation.  Grateful that he appeared unlikely to investigate his concerns, I remained where I was until his head sunk back onto his pillow and his body relaxed towards sleep. Only then did I creep silently back to my own room, collapsing exhausted into my own bed.

 

 

 

I woke to a tea tray at nine thirty the following morning. There was to be an informal brunch in the breakfast room before commencing the day's activities. I had already arranged with Isobel that I would not be partaking in the grounds tours so did not hurry my tea or my dressing.  If I was late enough, the men's hunting group would already have departed.  There was no one in the breakfast room when I entered so I helped myself to kedgeree from the silver tureen and took my plate to my favourite place. The library.  Pushing open the heavy oak door, I smiled at the scent of leather and old books, such a comforting smell.  The room was still gloomy as the internal shutters had not been opened. The staff had obviously not expected this room to be used so early in the day.  I set my plate on a table, opened one shutter slightly to let a single shaft of light into the bay window I wished to sit in, and chose a book from one of the many shelves of treasures.  After a time, the door at the other end of the room creaked slightly, admitting someone else.  I did not look up from my reading.  I heard the slow footsteps as their owner scanned the shelves, pausing sometimes to pull out a book and then return it.  They were unhurried, patient, their reverence for the written word evident in their very movements.  Slowly they approached where I sat, hidden in the nook of the square bay.

"Oh!" The velvet voice held surprise, almost startled. "Do excuse me. I apologise for disturbing your reading." I looked up then, something familiar in the tone making my colour rise.

"Mr Tietjens." I smiled politely, begging my face and voice not to betray me, "good morning. No need to apologise. I had expected everyone to be at the hunt by now. Did you, sleep well?"

He stared at me, his eyes suddenly sharpening, "Very well, thank you. I had a very good night. And I don't hunt I'm afraid. Never have." He smiled, his face breaking into a sunny beam surrounded by laughter lines that made his pale irises sparkle. His whole countenance changed with the smile, gone was the serious, world-weary look, it was replaced with an expression of curiosity, hope and possibility.  His gaze held mine and I fought the flush I knew bloomed on my cheeks and neck. "You prefer to read I see than join the other ladies on a tour of the grounds. 

"I have arranged with my sister to take one of the horses for a ride this morning." I replied, then continued conspiratorially, "and there's only so much of deaf old aunts that one can take."  He chuckled then, the similarity in tone to his moans the previous night sending a shiver of interest deep within me.

"You are absolutely right." he agreed, before fixing me with a more intent look. "Will you ride out alone?" I nodded my assent, my breathing quickening at his steady focus. I thought that through the gloom, I could see a pinkness brush his own high cheekbones. "I would ride with you, if I might?"

"I would be honoured." I closed my book, watching my hands to make sure he could not see their shaking.

"Excellent. After all," he said with a definite grin, "one never knows what circumstances may arise where one may need a hand." And with that, he turned and left the room.

 

 

 


End file.
